


The Anatomy of Shame

by VoiceOfNurse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Bed-Wetting, Caretaking, Castiel/Dean if you squint, Drinking to Cope, Emotionally Hurt Dean, Emotionally Repressed Dean, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shame, hurt!Dean, self-destructive behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoiceOfNurse/pseuds/VoiceOfNurse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Hell, Dean's body betrays him. His coping mechanisms are less than ideal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this one floating about in my subconscious for quite some time. It won't leave me alone, so I'm writing it and putting it out there.

It would have been mortifying, had the first time happened anywhere but half submerged in the dirt, shuddering with the aftermath of being buried alive, dust in his mouth and splinters driven deep into his fingertips. With the shadow of Hell a blood-red haze lurking behind his eyes and shock making him tremble, the only bodily function that he was able to focus on was the desperate heave of his lungs. He had huddled in the blasted remnants of his shallow grave for what might have been hours, a strange, nameless thing birthed from Hell-fire and the dark clutches of the earth, and thought of nothing. 

It was only later, when tears had washed the worst of the soil from his eyes and his shocky trembling had finally stilled, that he became Dean Winchester again. Always the big brother, his first coherent thought that wasn’t panic or pain was Sam. He had to get to Sam, find him before something happened. Something was as nebulous as it had always been, and yet somehow more menacing than ever;  he was alive, which meant that his baby brother might not be.

With Sam in some potential, unknown danger, the fact that he was damp didn’t really cross his mind. The smell of stale urine was lost under the cloying scent of grave-dirt and the memories of sulfur. Distantly, he was aware of what had happened, but he didn’t have the reserves to be embarrassed about it. He had just clawed his way out of a grave (out of Hell), found himself inexplicably in a body that was alive and breathing and not at all torn to shreds; the idea that his bladder may have released somewhere along the way wasn’t even all that surprising.

It would have been nothing; forgotten, had it not happened again.

The second time, he put it down to drunkenness. It was beyond humiliating, but also not the first time that he’d gotten himself so far into the bottom of a bottle that he’d woken up in a compromising position. He had a hazy idea that they’d been hunting… something. Whatever it had been was dead, and he hadn’t been able to sleep. Sam had been watching him judgmentally from across the room, which was probably why he’d woken up propped against the wall of what he could only assume was a roadhouse bathroom.

It was entirely possible that he was wet through from sitting on the floor; he’d certainly tell Sam as much if his little brother chose to ask. The pain in his head, coupled with a warning nausea, was bad enough that he didn’t really care. He’d been covered in worse things, and sat in worse places than a bumfuck nowhere bathroom. He washed any thought of it from his mind with a few swigs from his hip-flask.

He drank himself to sleep most nights that he dared to sleep at all, but the third time couldn’t be put down to anything but his own failings. He woke up cold, drenched in sweat and hunting out Hell-fire. He found monsters in the dark at first, gun in hand before he’d so much as blinked, but a few shallow breaths and a wild glance from wall to wall brought him back to where he was with a sickening rush. Motel room, somewhere in North America, the bed across from him empty.

Sam had left sometime during the night. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but the lack of another living body in the room made it that much harder to settle. An edgy swallow from the bottle on the side table didn’t help either, which had Dean shifting in preparation to stand. It was only then that he noticed it, and with the chill beginnings of horror he reached under the covers to check. His hand came away wet, tacky and distinctive. His jeans were clinging to his thighs, the sheets stained in an incriminating circle around him. 

There was no excuse. For all that he felt sick to his stomach he wasn’t actually unwell. His body, remade from whatever rotting remnants had been buried in that coffin, had been healed from any imperfections save the burn of Castiel’s grip on his shoulder. He was neither ill nor injured, and nowhere near drunk enough to lapse into slack unconsciousness. For the first time since he had been five years old, he’d wet the bed. 

It was one of the few times that Dean was wholeheartedly glad that Sam wasn’t with him. Near-withering with humiliation, he skulked out from between the sheets, aggressively stripping the evidence of his shame from the bed. There was a wet patch on the mattress that seemed to watch him with accusing eyes. Standing naked and shivering Dean hauled it from the frame; flipping the mattress to hide what he’d done. 

Dean wanted to shower; wash any trace of it from him, but the thought of Sam coming back, the idea that his little brother might  _ see _ , drove him to get dressed as quickly as he possibly could. The sheets were quickly balled up and hidden, ready to be burned at the first opportunity that presented itself, his clothes wrapped up along with them. The phantom voice of his father scolded him for wasting perfectly good garments, especially when he had so few at present, but the idea of stepping back into those jeans, even freshly laundered, made him cold with shame. 

He imagined that everyone was watching him as he crept from the room, despite there not being a soul in sight, heading for reception to ask for new bedding. The spotty near-teenager at the desk gave him a dry look, though he provided what Dean asked for without comment. All the same Dean read judgement in his eyes. He felt hunted; the Angles’ Righteous Man hiding wet sheets as if the Almighty wasn’t glaring down at him, weighing his worth and finding him lacking. 

Dean didn’t sleep that night, didn’t dare so much as sit on the freshly made bed for fear that he’d contaminate it. It was as if everyone would suddenly  _ know  _ if he so much as touched it. Instead, he sat in the room’s most uncomfortable chair, gun in one hand and a bottle at his elbow, and waited for morning. 

It was there that Sam found him some hours later. Dean looked up at his brother’s return; he had half a mind to ask Sam where on earth he’d been, but the majority of his thoughts were wrapped up in relief that his brother hadn’t been witness to his lapse in control. 

“Man, do you never sleep?” Sam sounded concerned despite his eyes landing unhappily on the bottle, now mostly empty, that Dean hadn’t had the energy to put away. 

Dean grunted, tired and irritable. “I sleep,” he snapped, taking a deliberate swig because he knew it would piss Sam off. It had the desired result; Sam wasted no time telling Dean how much of an asshole he was and by the time they’d finished sniping at each other they were on the road and the topic of sleep (and its consequences) was well and truly dropped.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've left this one far too long, and am now getting off of my arse to finish it. I've had little to no mojo for writing lately, so thanks to the lovely OMOWatcher for poking me with a stick until I actually produced something again. Even if that something is my torturing poor Dean.

Sometimes, it seemed as though Dean’s control had been hanging on a knife edge for so long that he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be calm. Once, there had been days at a time when he’d been settled; confident inside his own skin, sure of himself. Too sure, if Sam was to be believed; arrogant and incorrigible. Shameless. Sometimes, he wondered if Sam knew him at all. 

Of course, Sam was different now. Dean watched behind his eyelashes, feigning sleep as his little brother did the same. It had been perhaps half an hour since they had started the charade, and already Sam was visibly antsy. Wherever he went at night, he was clearly in a hurry to get there. For once, Dean was thankful, and willing to let little brother have his secrets. Sam would be back, but Dean had timed him; never less than two hours, never more than three. He knew Dean intimately; had followed his sleep patterns for years, and if Hell hadn’t broken something in Dean he probably never would have noticed his brother’s absence. 

But Hell  _ had  _ broken him. Somewhere between the torture, the fear, and the soul-deep self-loathing, Dean Winchester had shattered and he hadn’t the first clue about how to put himself back together. He couldn’t tell Sam. Couldn’t tell  _ anybody _ . His brother already thought he was weak, had used some uncanny ability to sniff out Dean’s flaws and poke at them for all he was worth. He wanted Dean to spill his many secrets, wanted Dean to be strong, but looked at him as though he was broken. It hurt to meet Sam’s eyes, these days. Dean was drowning in shame and deathly afraid of Sam’s disappointment. Scared he might not recognise his little brother the next time he found the courage to look. 

A shuffle from across the room drew Dean out of the dark spiral of his thoughts. Sam was up and out of bed, moving on stealthy feet towards the door. For an alarming second, he didn’t look like Sammy at all; some sinister creature loose from the Pit, playing pretend, watching Dean in the darkness, just waiting for a chance to strike… Of course, moments later Sam was out the door and the feeling was gone, leaving Dean staring at a closed door, heart racing. 

Two hours and counting. 

Dean gave it just long enough to make sure Sam was actually gone before getting out of bed. He hadn’t slept in a bed for weeks, not since he’d found the damning evidence of just how broken he really was. He couldn’t risk anyone finding out, wouldn’t be able to hold himself together if anybody knew. Of course, he’d tried to find a way of beating his body into submission; he’d tried every damn thing he could bear to think of and nothing had worked. 

At first, he’d stopped drinking, convinced that it would solve the problem, subsisting on sips of whisky and sheer bloodyminded resolve. He’d barely slept at all for the next three days, tormented by all the thoughts that he normally buried in the bottom of a bottle, mouth dry and head pounding. He’d watched Sam work his way through innumerable cups of coffee, locked eyes on the condensation bleeding down a water bottle, and gone slowly mad. 

Sam had noticed, of course. Sam was a strange mix of absent and hypervigilant now; some days Dean couldn’t seem to be free of his laser focus, while others he barely saw his little brother at all. On the morning of the fourth day they had had A Talk. Dizzy and exhausted, Dean’s defences had been down; he’d missed the key signs of an upcoming intervention, and found himself trapped in a motel bathroom with six feet and too many inches of Sammy staring at him with all of his anxious disappointment. 

“Dean.” Sam had sounded so earnest, as though his big body wasn’t trapping Dean up against the sink. Dean had come into the bathroom to get away for a moment, half blinded by a headache and not quite sure that he could keep on standing. He’d braced himself up against the sink for a moment, not daring to look at his own haggard face, before suddenly Sam was  _ there _ . He couldn’t remember locking the door, had been far enough gone not to really remember much of anything at that point, not that it mattered. Even if he had locked the door, Sammy was more than capable of letting himself in. 

“What, Sam? I’m in the damn bathroom.” Dean had responded by rote, head hung low over the sink to hide the way his eyes were mostly out of focus. “I expect this shit from Cas, not you.” 

Of course, Sam had completely ignored him. Instead, Dean had found himself manhandled around, Sam’s big hands tipping his face up and making the world swirl in a nauseating spiral. Dean had locked his hands around Sam’s arms to keep his balance, alarmed by how weak he had become, terrified all of a sudden that something would hurt him. Whether that something had been his brother or some other, nebulous danger that hunted him, Dean never found out. Instead, he came back to himself propped up against Sam’s chest, head tipped weakly to the side as his brother painstakingly fed him water. 

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, man, but this- this has to stop.” Sam had sounded scared, more like himself than Dean could remember since the shady time before Hell where little brother had been Little Brother. Dean had been too exhausted to really puzzle it out at the time. 

It had taken probably an hour for him to find his voice, by which time Sam had put him to bed, nudging him to take sips of fluid all the while. 

“Stop what?” 

Of course, it was glaringly obvious that he was late to the party almost as soon as he’d said it; Sam had moved past berating him and into Crushing Brotherly Concern by that point, which probably meant that Dean had been more out of it than he was willing to admit. 

Dean had been confined to bed for almost a week after their Talk, during which Sam had spoken in excruciating depth about self harm and post traumatic stress and all manner of other things that Dean didn’t want to think about, let alone discuss. Sam had threatened to take him to a hospital, threatened to call  _ Cas _ , as if a soldier of God had nothing better to do than heal Dean of his self-inflicted dehydration. 

Dean had relented because he’d been tired, so exhausted in mind, body and soul that he couldn’t imagine taking a single step, Apocalypse be damned. He’d done what his little brother asked right up until the afternoon, perhaps four days in, when he’d woken up in a wet bed. He’d only managed to avoid discovery because Sam, the paranoid bastard, had had him pissing in a bottle, citing some bullshit about kidney failure and monitoring urine output. Apparently he hadn’t trusted Dean to be honest if left to his own devices. Dean had to admit, his brother was probably right. Still, he was thankful for Sam’s fussing because it allowed him to stomp into the bathroom, cursing about knocking over the bloody useless bottle, and how he wouldn’t be using it again,  _ ever, so you can go fuck yourself, Sammy _ .

After that, Dean had learned to be more careful, for all the good it was doing him. 

It was cold in the motel bathroom, but Dean could handle the cold. He locked the door behind himself, even going so far as to jam it; it would give him time, if for some reason Sam came home early and went looking for him. He hadn't yet, probably wouldn’t, with how caught up in his clandestine activities he’d become, but Dean had to be sure. He had to be  _ certain _ that he was safe. 

Setting the bottle of scotch liberated from his duffle down on the sink, Dean spared himself a glance in the mirror, tracking pale skin and dead eyes before he was forced to look away in disgust. He didn’t look up again as he stripped away his jacket, flannel, tee; peeling back the layers that never really made him feel safe like they used to. He left his clothes in a heap on the floor, to aid the illusion that he’d slept in them, but mostly to keep them dry. 

The bitter shock of cold when he sat down in the empty bathtub made him tremble, but he pushed through, curling down into the chill hollow, the thin hand towel bunched up under his head. Almost as an afterthought, he dragged the bottle down from its perch, swallowing as much as he could stomach before closing his eyes. He only had two hours before he had to be up, two hours before he had to be dressed and ready to get back into bed and feign sleep for when Sammy crept back in. 

Two hours to sleep safely, where any evidence of his body’s betrayal could be washed away as though it had never happened. 

Alone in the dark, naked at the bottom of the tub, Dean spared a moment to wonder: what hope did he have of saving the world when he couldn’t even beat his own body into submission anymore? 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. At first I lost inspiration for this fic, then my little cat had to be put to sleep and it totally destroyed my desire to write. Hopefully I'm back now, and this work is now complete. 
> 
> Apologies if it's a bit scruffy, it's been a while since I've had the desire to create and I feel out of practice. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, as comments and criticism are always welcome.

“Hello Dean.” 

Despite all the shit and the monsters, if someone had told Dean not so long ago that he'd be woken by an Angel in the bathroom, he'd have laughed in their face. As it was, he just rolled onto his side with a groan.

“Privacy, Cas. I know we've talked about this. You don't just pop up on a dude when he's in the bathroom.” He was so tired that even the embarrassment was faint and far away. 

Cas, damn him, just cocked his head to the side and frowned. “You do not appear to be using the bathroom. You are simply… in the bathroom.” He sounded confused, the bastard.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “Not the point, dude. I'm in the bathroom. You are now in the bathroom with me. And that’s weird. It's also, shit, half three in the morning. Why are you even here?”

Cas wasn’t the sort of creature that shrugged; he wasn’t quite  _ that  _ human, which unnerved Dean on occasion. Right now, he couldn’t really care less. He was uncomfortable, exhausted, and not nearly drunk enough for Heaven and its never-ending slew of crap. Still, if Cas  _ had  _ been the type to shrug, Dean was certain he would have. 

“There has been some concern,” Cas began, and Dean had to physically stop himself from covering his ears like a child, humming loudly until it all just stopped. Of course, Cas was a patient motherfucker; he probably would have waited for Dean’s hands to cramp and his voice to dry out and then continued as if there hadn’t been any interruption. “That is to say-” 

It wasn’t like the guy to hesitate, which caught Dean’s flagging interest just enough to fully open his eyes. He was naked, cold, and covered only by a towel, but he was also beyond caring. Cas had seen him worse, after all. Dean swallowed down a nauseous flash of Hellfire; burned wings and shrieking in the dark. “Spit it out, man, so I can get a drink and go back to sleep, because if the world isn’t literally falling down, I’m not playing Heaven’s bitch until I’ve had a few hours.” 

“There is a bed in the other room,” Cas didn’t  _ sound  _ awkward, his voice as gruff as ever, but Dean had the feeling the guy was squirming. “Might I ask why you aren’t using it?” 

“Looks like you’ve already asked.” For a moment anger and stung pride flared; Dean was beset with the urge to stand up, maybe punch Cas in the face to make himself feel better. The broken hand would be worth it. 

Of course, Cas didn’t rise to Dean’s bullshit. He just kept on staring at Dean as though he could see right through him. He probably could; creepy Angel bastard that he was. 

Dean grunted irately. “None of your business. So if you don’t actually want anything, why don’t you fuck off back to whatever you do when you’re not meddling in our lives?”

Cas kept on looking at him, long and hard and all seeing, until Dean felt his eyes burn. He looked away, swallowing down a sudden surge of unwelcome emotion. He was used to feeling small, but this was beyond a joke. Of course, when he looked back up, ready to lash out, get his barriers back up, Cas had vanished. 

 

~*~

 

Things came to a head, as they always did. Dean’s life had well and truly gone to shit by the time he wasn’t able to hide it anymore. Sammy was- terrifying, everything had broken into so many pieces, Cas was asking questions and Dean just- couldn’t anymore. 

He had his own motel room for reasons he didn’t want to examine, so there wasn’t anyone to hide from. At first, he’d kept up the pretense; hiding in the bathroom, not sleeping when he could avoid it, but after a while he just couldn’t see the point. Sam already thought he was weak, and Sam wasn’t even there to judge him. 

Dean had taken to the bed, and stayed there. He had enough low quality booze to numb the pain, and that was all he really needed. He’d come to the realization that there really was no way to win now; the whole world would end, or Dean’s would. He was fucked either way. 

“Dean… are you… well?” 

Of course. Fucking Cas. 

Dean ignored him, keeping his eyes closed. He didn’t want to see any more judgement. Couldn’t be Heaven’s Righteous Man right now. Couldn’t even be bothered to try. It wasn’t as if he could actually do anything to get rid of Cas if the Angel was inclined to stay. 

“Dean?” 

“What now, Cas? I thought I told you: I’m done. Leave me alone.” Dean’s voice sounded wrecked, even to himself. Too much to drink, too little conversation, too much grief… 

There was a soft pressure on his arm, which was the only warning he got before the bed dipped. Dean’s back was facing Cas, but he could feel him there, a solid shape against his spine. It was comforting and terrifying all at once; to have a creature so monumentally powerful at his back. Cas could do literally anything to Dean, but despite his inhuman morality and strange agenda, Dean trusted him. Cas wouldn’t deliberately hurt him. 

Cas cleared his throat, a completely unnecessary action that he wouldn’t have made not so long ago. Humanity was rubbing off on him, clearly. The damp sheets, transferring moisture, was suddenly a poignant analogy. Dean flinched. “Cas… get up.” 

The hand on his arm was back, firm this time. “No. I am going to sit here, and you are going to talk to me.” Soldier of God; Dean sometimes forgot the power that his quirky sort-of friend could wield in his voice alone. Strangely, it calmed him. Made him feel like he had no other choice but to speak. 

“What do you want me to say, man? That I’m fucked up? You know that. Y’know, I thought it was your fault, at first? That you’d somehow put me together again wrong. Left some bit of me out. You don’t know shit about humans, after all, and I thought, maybe, this wasn’t just my- crap. But it is, isn’t it. All- me.” 

Cas didn’t do him the disservice of pretending not to know what Dean was talking about. He just pressed his fingers a little deeper into Dean’s shoulder, covering the scar there. The only proof that it hadn’t all been in Dean’s head; that he really  _ had  _ gone through some terrible ordeal that his fresh, unmarked body made a lie of. 

“I will not pretend to understand the intricacies of the human mind. Millennia of study and I would be no closer to making sense of it. But… if it would make it easier, you can blame me. I did ‘put you back together’, as you say.” 

Dean laughed, just a little, because there was an Angel of the Lord sitting in piss and using air quotes. Castiel had changed so very much from the monster that had exploded into Dean’s life in a shower of sparks and doom. Dean had contaminated him. He wondered, not for the first time, what the other Angels thought of Cas now. Probably like he had some sort of nasty STD. Letting lower lifeforms contaminate him and all that bullshit. 

“Not your fault.” 

Cas hummed a little, a quiet, reassuring sound. “A wise man once said ‘this too shall pass’,” he said. “Until then, will you allow me to help?” 

There was something hot and burning lodged in Dean’s chest; he couldn’t speak around it, but after an agonizing moment he found it within himself to nod. Cas responded with another gentle press of his fingers, nothing more, and Dean huffed out a great sigh of relief. He didn’t know what he would have done if Cas had offered him more right off the bat. Probably something embarrassing like breaking down in tears. 

Dean Winchester didn’t surrender; he battled to his last breath and then some. But he didn’t feel very much like Dean Winchester when Cas finally helped him out of the rank sheets to stand on unsteady legs. He didn’t feel like very much of anything. It was surprisingly freeing. 

Castiel could have snapped his fingers and had the mess gone, but instead he lead Dean into the bathroom and sat him on the edge of the bath. He ran hot water as though it were his only mission, all the focus of one of God’s soldiers turned to this mundane task, and once everything was to his liking he turned to Dean again.

There was little need to talk, and Dean doubted he would have been able to find words anyway; he simply allowed Cas to strip him down and help him into the water, sitting inert and unmoving while the Angel left the room. He watched, passive, as Cas moved around the tiny motel room, fussily gathering Dean’s things. Once every last personal item had been gathered, he returned, kneeling beside the bath with a serious expression. 

Dean wasn’t entirely sure what was going to happen, but Castiel dipping his hands into the water to wash him hadn’t even crossed his mind. He must have looked shocked, perhaps alarmed, prompting a soft huff from his companion. 

“Do you know the significance of Jesus washing the feet of his Disciples, Dean?” the Angel asked, clearly not looking for an answer, as he chose that moment to tip Dean’s head back and apply water to his hair. “This is not something I do lightly, or unthinkingly, nor is it something that you should feel unworthy of.” 

There was water in his eyes, on his face; Dean blinked through wet lashes. “Washed Judas’ feet too.” He closed his eyes again, suddenly beyond exhausted. 

“You are not a betrayer, Dean. A soldier, yes, who has faced many trials and suffered many wounds, but that is one thing you are not.” He sounded calm, and certain in a way that couldn’t be refused. Dean wasn’t entirely sure that he believed it, but the desire to argue was draining away along with the water. 

He sat, shivering but not in the least cold, as an Angel of the Lord dried him and dressed him as though he was in some way worthy of it. He didn’t know what had happened to his wet clothes, but it didn't smell like they were in his duffel, which Cas slung over one shoulder. For all he knew, the Angel had smote them out of existence. Dean sort of hoped he had. 

“Come, Dean.” 

It had been a long time since Dean’s world had been simple; back when he’d had one mission (Protect Sammy) and John Winchester’s word had been the only law worth obeying. Everything was so much easier, when he had a higher power to follow. In that moment, the higher power was Cas, though later Dean would furiously deny ever feeling such a thing. 

As it was, he was heartsick and tired; it was blessedly easy to let Cas steer him outside and fold him into the front seat of the Impala. For a moment, he wondered if they were going somewhere, but Castiel just guided him down, laying him out with his head in the Angel’s lap. 

“Sleep, Dean.” Cas spoke softly, his voice like a benediction. “Nothing will happen while I’m here.” 

Dean blinked, already hazy, his thoughts sluggish. In the back of his mind, he was worried about… something, but it seemed very far away. His whole world had collapsed down into itself, leaving just his Baby and Castiel. Both warm and familiar and safe. 

The world would be there in the morning, clawing and biting at his heels, but just for a moment everything was quiet. Dean didn’t have to do anything, or think anything, and it was a blessed relief. 

He fell asleep there, calm for the first time since he’d hauled himself out of the dirt, and didn’t dream. 


End file.
